Cabin Fever
by WinterWhirls
Summary: Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. No place to go, except inside...      Elliot/Olivia suspense.
1. Chapter 1

**PREFACE**

_He sits in the worn armchair by the fireplace in the small cabin, and he holds her gun in his hand. He is mesmerized by the flames dancing delicately in the chimney, by the inferno licking at the stones placed behind the grate. He is focused intently on feeling the heat, feeling the power that the orange blaze exudes. It calms him. It makes him forget his terrible mistake, the reasons that he cannot, no matter what the consequences, return to the city._

_He hears her shift, and his gaze snaps to her lithe form. Her right hand is handcuffed with her own department-issued shackles to the kitchen table, and she is seated restlessly in the unsteady chair beside it. The small cabin, abandoned in the middle of the woods, smells of rotting wood and the grimy walls make her want to vomit. There is a bowl of cold tomato soup in front of her, one that she refuses to touch. As a lone tear of frustration slides down her cheek, she hopes that maybe, if she decides to starve herself, he'll agree to take her back to civilization. Back to the city. Back to their squad room._

_Back to where she can explain to Cragen that Elliot never meant to kidnap her._

_Her partner gets up from the tattered armchair and stands before her, wishing he could tell her how sorry he is for ever having to turn his gun on her._

_**PART ONE - NOVEMBER 19TH**_

In the dense forest, it smells like autumn.

Not in the frisky, crisp freshness of the chilly seasonal air, but rather in the oppressive moistness generated from the dampness of dead leaves. The mouldy smell is imposing, and her boots are muddy from the sodden ground beneath her feet.

She walks with less fervour than her usual self-assured stride, her leather jacket buttoned up against the remnants of bitter daytime rains, cold vestiges of the ominous clouds above. The humidity in the air makes her hair curl, and she tucks an unruly lock behind her ear.

They walk side by side, elbows brushing lightly.

"Look," she says suddenly, putting a hand on Elliot's bicep to stop him and pointing to the ground in front of them with her other. "There, footprints."

Elliot crouches down and narrows his eyes, taking in the muddy imprints. "Same size, same pattern as the hunting boots found in Jules's basement."

"And they're leading up over there," she agrees, pointing up the hillside leading deeper into the isolated forest. Elliot takes a step forward,in the direction in which she points, determined to find the man they've been tirelessly tracking for the better part of the last two weeks. They've finally caught a break, a clue as to where this monster has kept Isabelle Mayhaden, the eight-year-old he kidnapped.

"El," she says, lightly gripping his elbow firmly to keep him from following the prints. "We should wait for the backup."

"Screw the backup," he grumbles, sliding his arm from her grip. "They'll take at least another two hours to get all the way out here, and you know Jules could be killing that girl right now."

"We have no idea if he's armed, or if he's -,"

"And there's two of us, one of him," he says curtly, suggesting that the matter isn't open for discussion.

She sighs, but she knows deep down that she wants to get this guy as much as he wants to. There's been to many mistakes already on this case, and now that they're so close, it is impossible to wait any longer. They owe it to the little girl to come and save her as soon as possible.

She falls into step beside him, and they begin the tedious treck up the thickly forested hillside, following the footprints. They are in the middle of a densely wooded area, with the squad car parked about four miles back, on the nearest road. Out here, it is just them, their perp, and the intimidating power of Mother Nature.

She is out of breath by the time they reach the summit of the forested hill, and she scans the surrounding area, looking for any signs of their perp. It is misty, and chilly in an eerie sense. The forest is thick and full around them, and the trees looming overhead spread their branches wide around the pair, making is difficult to see much of anything.

"You see him?" Elliot asks, also out of breath.

"No," she looks to the ground, searching again for the footprints that lead them here in the first place. She kicks at the amalgamation of brown and green, upturning leaves in search of the heavy footmarks. It is useless, for the imprints of the large boot have disappeared.

"Where the hell did this guy go?" Elliot asks, and she can tell by his tense shoulders that he is angry, that he just wants to find the child.

"He has to be here somewhere," she reasons, because it is true, he can't have dropped off the face of the earth. He is in these woods, somewhere in the surrounding area. And so is Isabelle. The notion that the child is here, maybe hurt, spurs her on. She continues to scan the woods around them.

"Fuck," Elliot growls, and takes off to their left with powerful strides. She trots behind him, hesitant to deal, to reason, with his anger.

"Why don't we wait for the backup, okay?" She manages to get in front of him, and places a hand firmly on his chest, stopping his agitated advance. "Elliot. Stop. We'll have more luck with a whole team here."

"Don't you get it?" He snaps. "Liv, he's probably killing her _right now_! I'm not about to let that happen!"

"I know. I'm trying not to let that be the case either, but we have to -,"

Her words are cut short when a bullet from an unknown shooter whizzes past her left ear from behind, hitting the tree nearest to them and ricocheting off in another direction. Elliot's eyes depict shock, fear, but he reacts more quickly than her own frozen body. He grabs her by both biceps, holding her tightly, and dives to the forest floor.

The wind is knocked of her chest abruptly, and she strains to regain her oxygen. Elliot's body is heavy on top of hers, and he's got her flattened underneath him, shielded from the bullets still being fired at them. When she tries to breathe, her body expands up into his and she can't get any air in her lungs.

"El -," she manages, and lays her palms flat against his chest, trying to push him off a bit in order to get reprieve from the tightness in her chest.

"Shhhh," he says sharply, but shifts his weight onto his elbows on either side of her head. Her chest free, she inhales large mouthfuls of the air, relieving her lungs from the unpleasant pressure.

She is acutely aware of every sound around them. The snapping of every twig makes her flinch in anticipation, and the whisper of the wind rustling the damp autumn leaves resembles the sound of footsteps swishing through the foliage. Elliot is absolutely still above her, every muscle in his body tense and perfectly frozen, coiled to spring into action at any moment.

And then another clear, deafening shot rings out and once again his whole body weight is dropped on her, and although she is grateful for the protection from the gun's random shots, the lack of air in her lungs makes her head spin uncomfortably.

"Liv," he murmurs in her ear, breathlessly, and she knows it brings him comfort to know that she is still there.

The next shot that is fired is considerably louder than the last, and the noise made at the point of impact is frighteningly close to their cover spot. She can't see anything past the protective barrier that is his body, and it unnerves her, not being able to see the threat before her.

As suddenly as he threw them down on the ground for cover, Elliot is back on his feet. His hand grabs the lapel of her leather jacket and his other hand goes to her elbow. He effortlessly brings her halfway to her feet before ushering her in the direction of safety, behind a large, mossy rock several feet away from them. She doesn't know where he wants her to be, what he wants her to do, and every movement he makes is so strong and so unexpected and quick that she finds herself tripping. She hits the damp ground on her knees, and feels the sharp nub of a stick press ruthlessly into her kneecap. Elliot grabs her by the armpits and drags her to her feet once more, and she grabs a steady hold on the flap of his jacket so that she doesn't loose him. He runs with all his speed and agility toward the cover of the rock, and she follows, feeling clumsy, both of them crouching low to protect themselves against the onslaught of bullets showering them.

When she crouches against the far side of the rock, she immediately pulls her gun from her hip. Elliot's is already in his hand, and he breathes heavily, his shoulder pushing into hers with every inhalation.

"How the hell did he find us?" she breathes, trying to measure her panting.

Elliot just shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders. "Y'ok?" he pants, and his eyes scan her quickly for signs of blood.

"Fine," she answers, still breathing heavily.

"Okay." Elliot sighs deeply, and then pushes himself from the side of the rock, crouching on the balls of his feet. "Okay." His eyes meet hers, and hold her gaze. "Let's get this son of a bitch."

She follows him with caution as he creeps around to the side of the rock diagonal to the direction from which the shots were coming. Her gun is raised, poised to take a shot, and her eyes dart speedily from tree to tree, looking for any signs of their shooter.

Suddenly, to her left, a sharp sound is heard, loudly breaking the tense silence that has fallen over the scene. Even in her own ears, past the rushing of blood and the pounding of her heart, she hears is loud and clear. Elliot stands immediately, and fires a shot in the direction of the sound. A split second after firing, he ducks back down beside her, his gun still raised. He gets rid of the casing expertly, and it falls beside her right foot. Their shooter fires back almost instantly, and it is with dread that she realizes that he is actually a very good shot. Too good, for the shot hurtles past Elliot's hand, the one holding his gun in position. It takes someone with experience, she knows, to be able to come even close to hitting an obscured, hidden target. A moving target. And then the alarm washes through her, pooling low in her stomach and heating her face.

"Elliot," she whispers, in distress. "Jules's is a hunter. He's a good shot…he knows how to use a gun."

Elliot's face registers realization, and then his features become contorted as the anger pounds through his veins. She places a warm hand on his forearm, squeezing.

"Easy," she warns, and readjusts herself so that she's ready to take the next shot. She rises slightly, her thighs burning from the strain of her muscles as they hold her in the position. She fires twice, one shot right after the other, and at once takes cover behind the rock.

Before Jules has a chance to respond to her bullets, Elliot takes a risk and stands up completely. From his new vantage point, he has a clear view of Jules, preparing to take his shots. In a split second, Elliot has fired, and Olivia hears a sound of impact followed by a loud grunt.

"Subject hit!" Elliot shouts at her, rushing out from behind the rock. Although she is upset that Elliot took such a risk in the face of an expert shooter, she is glad Jules is dealt with and she focuses on commending Elliot for taking care of it.

"Nice shot," she praises, patting him swiftly on the back as they make their way to the body sheathed in the camouflage jacket lying on the ground. Elliot shrugs her arm away though, he is still too tense and wound up to deal with touches or speaking. She knows the feeling, right after she shoots a suspect, the adrenaline pumping vigorously throughout her body, muscles primed for more violence, ready to react to the smallest threat. She knows not to question him or push him when he is already so close to the edge. It will take him a while to settle down, and she is accustomed to his uptight behaviour.

So she lets him work, watches as he checks Jules's nonexistent pulse and kicks the gun away from the dead man's hand. It skids away before sliding under a pile of neighbouring leaves, disappearing. Elliot straightens up and begins to pace back and forth, his breathing laboured.

She walks to him cautiously with her hands up by her head. "Elliot. It's okay. It's okay. He's dead. It's over now."

Elliot does not acknowledge her words, simply murmurs to himself and continues with his rapid pacing.

"Stop," she says, more firmly. "Elliot, look at me. It's alright. It's alright. Calm down."

His pacing slows, and he walks directly to her, coming to stand in front of her. He continues his murmuring, but he seems to be back with her, back in his own right mind. He sighs and rubs his forehead with his hand. "Are you okay?" he asks, restlessly, even though he has already asked her previously. When she reaches out and touches his shoulder, she is worried when she feels that he is still strung impossibly high with tension.

"Yes, El. I'm fine."

From directly behind him, further up the steep hill, a twig snaps brusquely, sharply, and the loudness of it makes his whole frame jump before her. She doesn't even have a moment to register when his entire body, wired from his panic and from the adrenaline still flowing freely though his veins, whips around in the direction of the startling noise. He is blinded by his panic, by his overwhelming need to protect Olivia, by his own heart pounding deafeningly in his ears, that when he raises his gun and fires toward the target, he is unaware of his body's actions. It is automatic, a primal urge to save himself, to keep Olivia alive, and suddenly the gun goes off and the bullet launches and Olivia screams, yanking his arm down. It is too late; the bullet has been fired, the ramifications unthinkable.

He sees the small body, dressed in pink, hit the forest floor. He sees it through the fog in his brain, the water in his eyes, and he realizes that he's made a horrid mistake. Horrible, irrefutable, irreversible. He drops to his knees in a daze, his body convulsing with the terror of what he's just done. His hand reaches up blindly. His fingers clench around the leather material and he clings to Olivia's jacket, pulling her form close to his side. He needs to feel her warmth, he needs to know that she is still with him.

Past the overwhelming emotion in his body, he sees Olivia drop her gun to the ground and sprint forward, her jacket, his lifeline, wrenched from his grip. She is racing deftly up the hill to where the little girl, blond haired and green eyed, lies motionlessly on the dead, damp leaves.

He watches through a daze as his partner envelops Isabelle's small frame in her arms, rocking her gently back and forth, pressing down hard on the child's chest, over the spot drenched in the rapidly spreading pool of crimson. His ears just barely pick up her desperate words of comfort to the girl, the tears in her voice.

The small body in Olivia's arms convulses, and is absolutely still. Isabelle's shiny eyes stare glassy, unblinking, at the sky above her. She is dead.

"No, no, no, no," the words are torn from his throat in a guttural moan, and he is limp on his hands and knees.

From her spot up on the hill, Olivia hears Elliot's rasping. She envelops the child in her leather jacket, and races back down the hill toward her inconsolable partner. She drops heavily to her knees beside him, afraid to touch him, afraid to speak.

Her partner has just killed a child. A victim. Her partner has just shot the missing girl. Elliot has just killed a child. A child. He killed her.

"El, Shhhh," she whimpers, trying to get him to look at her. "It's…okay, it's okay." She chokes, "Everything is going to be fine…"

Elliot retches, vomiting on the ground before him, a string of saliva dripping from his mouth. He wipes it away viciously. "I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to...please Liv, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to..."

"I know...Elliot...I know."

Suddenly, his head snaps up and he stares at her with a dark, cold glare. He trembles violently, his black eyes locked on her face.

She trembles beneath his glare, recoiling into herself slightly, and for the first time, she is afraid of him.

"Olivia," he rasps, his voice breaking. "Give me your phone."

She frowns, confused, and worried. "El -,"

"_Give me your phone_," he presses, reaching out to her. She retreats slightly, but unclips her phone from her hip.

"Are you going to call it in -,"

"Give it!" he yells, tormented, and she is startled but drops the phone obediently into his hand.

He stands on wobbly legs, his face pale and his arms trembling. He motions for her to stand up as well, and she rises to his height without further prompting. Elliot reaches for her, and although she'd rather they just call the backup and get the hell out of there, she knows she needs to be there for his well being. Because if she doesn't at least try to help him now, he will be inconsolable by the time they return to the city.

He staggers clumsily into her, his arms wrapping tightly around her and his face burying itself in her neck. He stands, defeated, as she lifts her own arms to encircle him, and runs them soothingly up and down his back. His body convulses and suddenly he is gasping into her neck, the wetness from his eyes dripping onto her shoulder. His weight is heavy, he leans against her limply, but she continues to hold him up.

"Elliot," she whispers. "Come on. Let's go back to the car." She caresses his head with her hand, and pulls back, her eyes meeting him. "Let's go," she soothes.

But he is suddenly angered, forceful. He would never hurt her, but her mind wanders there as he takes her elbow and grabs her gun from the forest floor beside them.

"What are you -,"

"We've gotta get out of here."

"Elliot?" She almost trips over herself as he pulls her along, to the top of the hill, past the child and her jacket, and down the other side of the steep escarpment. His hold changes and he hugs her at the hips so that she doesn't fall.

"Elliot, stop. Stop right now. You aren't thinking straight, let's go back. Please, let's get to the car."

He does not listen to her, only steadies her weary body against his and begins to stride down the hill. The leaves make it slippery, and she cannot fight his grip with her footing this unsteady. Instead, her fingers grip tightly to the folds of his coat and she is grateful for his arm around her waist.

A few unbalanced minutes later, when he slides to a stop at the bottom of the abrupt slope, her eyes catch on something out of place in the dense forest. Hidden expertly amongst the brush and trees is a cabin, made of wood, planted in the middle of the forest in front of them. There is a slanted deck out front, with three stairs leading to the shabby wooden door. The shingles on the roof are grey and worn from rain, but they seem sturdy enough. Inside, it is dark, and the windows are dusty enough that she can't see inside even if she wanted to. The cabin, in its entirety, is small, maybe one open room and a small bathroom composing it. Although it is dirty and tattered, Olivia can tell from the rocking chair on the deck and the axe resting in the stump beside the stairs, that someone used to live here. Elliot has yet to release her waist, and he begins walking, as if in a haze, toward the worn cabin.

"El…" she whines in quiet protest, walking half-willingly with him toward the cabin. She isn't scared of him, only of the situation, and the unpredictability of it makes her stomach churn. "Let's go back to the road. I'll tell them what happened. You'll be okay, I promise. Let's just _please _go back."

It starts to rain.

He stops right in front of the stairs, and turns his face towards her so that his lips whisper gently against her temple, warm breath falling on her neck when he murmurs against her. "We can't go back. I'm so sorry, Olivia. We can never go back."


	2. Chapter 2

_**PART TWO - NOVEMBER 19TH**_

_**3:37 P.M.**_

**She** digs her heels obstinately into the moist soil beneath her feet, effectively preventing him from taking them any closer to the rickety cabin.

"What the hell do you mean?" She says apprehensively, through tight lips, eyeing him with trepidation. He doesn't answer her; instead he ducks his head, tightening his hold on her and leading her inelegantly foreword. Around them, the wind slithers dissonantly through the trees, reminding her of the way snakes glide graceful and sinister toward their oblivious prey. She can't help but feel overwhelmed by the forest surrounding them; by it's greatness. The clouds above are denser than ever, grey cotton balls looming ominously overhead. The raindrops thrum steadily against the green foliage, and the undergrowth seems to spring to life under the precipitation, turning into the vivid greens and reds and oranges of November.

They climb the stairs to the terrace and the porch is slippery with a thin coat of wet moss, the rotted wooden beams composing the insecure platform bending precariously beneath their coupled weight. Elliot steps toward the door, away from her, taking his warmth with him, but he keeps one hand wrapped securely around her wrist.

He reaches out and turns the handle on the door and gives a small push against it. The door swings slowly open on its hinges with a low groan, the dark interior of the cabin baiting her curiosity.

Their footsteps resonate within the walls of the small, yet comfortably cosy bungalow, and she keeps her gaze locked on the floor in front of herself, weary of any debris and fragments of glass that could be scattered across the floor. Surprisingly, the ground is smooth, the wooden planks sanded and level, even looking slightly varnished, free from wreckage and otherwise clean except for a thin layer of dust coating the surface.

The doorway opens to the one room bungalow, rectangular, with two windows on the opposite wall, symmetrical to the ones on the front wall. To her left she sees a double bed, covered with a simple, prettily patterned quilt. The frame is handcrafted, that much she can tell, but in all honestly the bed looks appealing and her tired legs long for reprieve. On the left side of the bed there is a brown bedside table, with a candleholder and wick standing atop. In the centre of the room there is a table, round and sized for two, with the chairs on opposite sides of it. Behind the table, against the far wall, stands a small counter top equipped with a sink and four cupboards, two on each side of the tiny basin. Although there is a tap, it is dotted with rust and she would be surprised if it gave any water. Finally, to her right, there is a cosy, den-like area. A fireplace is on the right wall, with an armchair in front of it. The hearth is stone.

She's used to putting on her tough façade when it comes to most things, things such as perps and perverts and guns.

Nevertheless, she's always been a city girl, and the primitiveness of her new surroundings scares the shit out of her. The skyscrapers and crowded streets are where she belongs. Not in the middle of a dense forest in some god-forsaken house.

"El, come on, let's just go." She steps back and gives his hand a tug.

He smiles a small, worn smile and shakes his head minutely. He steps to her, and with a hand at the small of her back, he gives her a little push further into the room. Stepping back behind her, he closes the door with a dissonant thud. "It's going to be okay, Liv."

"Stop with this shit, Elliot. We're going back to Manhattan." And she is so, so worried. There is something there, something entirely wild lurking in the hues of blue in his eyes, something uncontrollable and unfamiliar and scary. Something that proves he is really not okay.

"Liv," he grates, "Shut up. Please." And she can tell, just by the way his hands twitch identically to the way they do before a locker gets pulverized, that he is getting frustrated with her.

"Elliot…" She softens, desperate to calm him, bringing her other hand to cup the side of his face. "What happened with the little girl -,"

It seems that the mention of the child has unleashed the terror and fury inside of him. His blue eyes become bright pools of liquid in the midst of a vicious storm, the churning of the deep waters filled with emotion. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and his face clenches. He smacks her hand away from his face and then he has a hand wrapped around each of her biceps and he's right in her face.

"_Don't_," he whispers harshly, his breath falling over her face. He shakes her once, insensitively.

"Elliot -," she says, and there's shock in her voice. She knows he would never hurt her, but the rawness of the anguish written on his face is overwhelming. She twists against his hold, but his fingers only tighten their relentless grip. "Let go of me," she urges, but the intonation of her voice isn't angry. She needs to reach him, to find that connection they've always had.

He sighs heavily, and shakes his head back and forth several times before his grip on her slackens and he releases her.

He looks dishevelled, and he goes to sit on the bed, resting his head in his hands, breathing heavily.

"Do you know what just happened, Liv?" he asks in quiet incredulousness, his voice uncharacteristically small, muffled by his rough palms. "Do you have any idea what I've done?"

She approaches the bed where he sits with caution, ready for any reaction from him. When Elliot merely rests there, hunched over, she sits down beside him on the quilt, and her hand goes to his back.

"It was an accident…" he grates, and there are tears on his face; tears in his voice. "A fucking accident…Olivia, you gotta know…" And on the last word his voice cracks, the tightness in his throat too much to remain steady. He chokes on a sob.

"I do know," she whispers hoarsely, rubbing her hand up and down his back. "Elliot, I know."

"I killed her…Oh, god, I killed her…" And he turns into her, his face pressed right above her breast, his arms linking tightly around her waist. His back quivers and as she wraps her arms around his back, reciprocating the hug, she can feel every tremor that wracks his frame. "You can't leave me…"

* * *

><p><strong>4:11 P.M.<strong>

He has calmed, quieted, his face still resting against her, his weight still leaning upon her muscles. She wonders idly if he has fallen asleep, until he shifts against her, his head rising to rest in the crook of her neck, his hot breath blowing out against her. "Mmm, Liv."

"Elliot…c'mon," she whispers, breaking the dissonant silence surrounding them like a bubble. "We should get out of here."

He sighs deeply, but after a moment of quiet deliberation, he gets up slowly, and her heart leaps because she thinks that he is finally seeing reason, that he is finally listening to her.

He reaches into his pocket, a strange but soft expression printed across his face. "Stand up, Livia."

She does so, with a small smile on her face, relieved that in the wake of tragedy, he can still see reason. She reaches for his hand, wanting to guide him, to lead him out of the dark woods like he lead her in.

He reaches for her, but instead of accepting her offer of strength like she assumed he would, he closes his calloused palm around her wrist. She starts, not sure what to think, and she fleetingly wonders if he needs to reassure himself of his own capability by leading _her_… But then he withdraws his other hand from his pocket and there is a gentle clank and a flash of silver in the dim light.

The handcuff is cold around her wrist. She tries to draw her arm back, but it's already locked and he's holding the other one in a firm grip.

"Elliot!" she exclaims, in shock. "What are you doing?"

"Shhhh," he soothes. "Stand still."

"Stop," she whispers in protest, and she tries again to pull her wrist back. "Unlock it."

"I…can't do that." His voice is low, grating, and breaks again on the last word. There is pain in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head vehemently, disbelieving. Her breathing quickens. "Take it off."

He moves again and she hopes, she hopes he's listening to her. But he just walks her to the bed and locks the other cuff tightly around the solid wooden bedpost.

"Do you think they're looking for us yet?" His voice sounds gravely, shaky, and she can tell that he isn't accustomed to crying. She knows without asking that he is referring to Cragen and the rest of the team.

She remains silent, staring at him in shock.

He shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts, or reassure himself. He speaks lowly, as if the words are only meant for him, to comfort himself. "We don't usually get back to the precinct before seven anyway. No, they're not wondering yet."

He takes her phone and her gun and keys, and sets them down on the small granite step in front of the fireplace on the other side of the room. "Stay here Liv, okay? I'll be back soon."

"What?" She says, incredulous. "Where are you going?" She starts to breathe heavy again, her heart thumping.

"Just…I'll be back soon. Do you need anything?"

"Do I _need _anything?" she laughs, but there is no humour. Her voice is cold. "I need you to take me the fuck back to New York, Elliot."

He shakes his head, once, briskly.

"Talk to me, El," she pleads, because she just wants to know what he's thinking. She yanks up her cuffed arm, and the handcuffs clank against the bed. "Why?"

"You just…you can't leave me, Olivia. I can't take that chance."

She is so, so confused, and suddenly it dawns on her how not right in the head he is right now.

"Here," he says, and he folds her fingers around a small white pill. "Take this if you get too restless. I promise it'll help."

She sits, staring at him, hoping to communicate, to reach him and to hold onto him and make him see reason. Minutes pass. Months, years, decades, and still she is faced with his blank stare, his seemingly empty eyes that simultaneously hold too much emotion, too much mystery. She can't feel him right now, and that scares her more than anything.

He bends to kiss her hair quickly, and then he is gone, the door creaking shut behind him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>6:28 P.M.<strong>_

She has never felt so alone. She has never been so aware of her isolation, so conscious and alert of every sound surrounding her. She can hear the rain, a steady thrumming against the roof of the cabin, against the leaves outside, and she can hear the chirping of birds, happily digging for worms in the wet weather.

He has been gone a long time, and she is terrified that he has done something stupid.

He has a gun, after all, and a propensity for doing things without thinking. No one knows better than she does how he can dig himself a hole so, so deep and fill it with water and mud and then just jump right in, fully prepared to swim and swim in circles until he exhausts himself completely and gives up.

She keeps reminding herself that he wouldn't do that to himself with her still tied up here, because while he's perfectly fine with tormenting himself to no end, he'll surly pummel anyone who would hurt a hair on her head.

She looks across the room wearily, eyeing her phone and her keys in yearning.

* * *

><p><em><strong>10:17 P.M.<strong>_

She has to do something. She cannot sit here like this for one more moment. On her key ring there is a small silver key, with an oddly chiselled shape, and it unlocks the department handcuffs. They are on the opposite side of the room, however, and unreachable. She was never one to give up easily, though.

* * *

><p><em><strong>03:42 A.M.<strong>_

She notices that the bed isn't screwed into the ground. The legs are planted firmly, and it looks heavy, but she's sure she could move it. She could move it, drag it across the small room and get to her keys.

She stands up, wincing at the ache in her arm as the blood flows downwards. She grasps the bedpost with both hands, the cuffs clinking with the movement. She tugs on the bedpost with all the force in her arms, but all that results is the bedpost jerking loosely away from the frame. She yanks on it again, tugging several times in a row, the muscles in her abdomen tightening with every pull. She grunts softly with every haul, and every time she pulls on the bed it moves a centimetre along the floor.

It isn't long before her elbows start to ache from the shock of pulling and yanking and pushing the bed. Her lower back muscles are sore, and she hasn't made it halfway across the room yet. It is very late, or very early, and despite the worry she has for her partner, despite her yearn to be free of the cuffs, she is too tired to expel any more energy on moving this bed. She is exhausted, and she flops down unceremoniously on the quilted blanket, still careful to not further injure her cuffed hand, which bears a thick band of red, irritated skin around the wrist. The repeated rubbing of the cuff against her skin has even caused small areas where tiny beads of blood have smeared. It stings, and it is one more reason why she can't bring herself to move the bed any longer. The moving of the cuffs is too painful. And she is cold. So, so cold, the chilly November night air slipping through the poorly isolated walls.

Despite Elliot's odd behaviour, she still trusts him implicitly. She holds tightly to her belief that he would never intentionally hurt her, or tell her to do anything that would bring her harm. She fishes in her pocket for the small pill he had handed her, and tries to ignore the throbbing in her muscles, the throbbing in her wrist. She has this desperate urge to stretch her legs, to walk around and get out of the cabin. _Take this if you get too restless. I promise it will help_. With a shake of her head and a grim smile, she swallows the tiny pill.

Ten agonizing minutes later, she lies limply across the bed, her gaze fixed dazedly on the doorway. Her mind is all warm, and her body feels cocooned, soft, like butter, and she thinks that it is the most wonderful reprieve in the world. Every nerve ending is calm, fuzzy, and she just wants to sleep.

Each time she blinks, her eyes stay closed for a moment longer than the previous time, until she has to force herself to remember how to open them. But she figures that that part of her brain must already be asleep, because she can't, for the life of her, think of a reason why her eyes shouldn't stay closed.

**He** opens the door to the cabin, slipping inside quickly, wanting to keep all the warmth of the cabin inside. He had remembered, about three hours ago, that he hadn't lit a fire for her. He had apologized to her mentally over and over, and promised to take care of business as quickly as possible in order to get back to her.

Inside, he sets down the three enormous bags he had dragged with him onto the floor. He leaves the ones containing their clothing and other obligatory supplies by the door, but he takes the one safekeeping all the money from his personal bank account – and any other cash he could scrounge up – and deposits it safely on the other side of the bed, away from the door. Next, he takes the box of matches out from his pocket, arranging two logs and an old newspaper in the hearth. As soon as he is greeted by the warm golden blaze of a comforting fire, he picks up her keys which are resting right beside him. He thinks she must have taken the sleeping pill he had offered her, because Olivia is a very light sleeper. She would have woken up at the sound of his entrance had she not been under the influence of the small drug.

He walks quietly over to her, and notices for the first time, in the dim light provided by the fire, that the bed is a good four feet out from the wall, where they'd originally found it. Her wrist is red and abused, and he knows exactly what she must have tried to do.

"Fuck, Liv," he murmurs under his breath, as he inserts the key into the lock of the handcuffs. They unlock with a gentle clinking noise, and he tosses them onto the nearby table. He looks at her unconscious form. "What were you thinkin', huh?"

She is out cold, not even roused in the least at his movements. He pulls the covers back from underneath her, folding them back overtop of her body so that she is completely covered by the soft quilt, save her head. He takes a pillow and places is gently under her, her hair falling silkily across it. When he touches her face gently he is worried by how cold her skin is. He is a bastard for leaving her here, he knows it, but taking her with him and risking her blowing his cover was too dangerous. He had gone back to the city, back to their apartments and packed all the necessities, emptied his bank account and taken the cash from her apartment. They have what they need for a while now, and he's going to keep her safe. He will keep her safe, and he will keep himself safe. Safe from the authorities, the people that will want to take her away from him, the people who will put her through hell just for being with him when the girl was shot.

He slips out of his shoes and crawls underneath the blanket with her, shifting until his restless body is comfortable, tucking his arms around her to keep the cold out and her warmth in.

He breathes in the scent of his partner, of his best friend, and she is the scent of comfort. She is the wonderful fragrance of acquaintance and familiarity, when the cold anxiousness in the pit of his stomach is overwhelmingly foreign.

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you for reading :)

Nita - I'm off now to go read your work. I'm so, so sorry it has taken so long. But I'll get there, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

_**PART 3 **_

_**NOVEMBER 20**__**TH**_

She wakes to find herself misted in a thin sheen of perspiration, the heat beading at the small of her back and under her breasts. She blinks her eyes open, bewildered at the ridiculously warm temperature. The grey morning light intrudes past the thin curtains covering the window, and shadows of the heavy rain thrumming outside dance in rivulets on the wall.

Whereas last night the cabin had been freezing in the absence of the fire, this morning the blaze has more than warmed the enclosed space, and with the windows and door shut tight, there is nowhere for the heat to go but circulate again and again around them. The air she inhales is thick. The quilt is wrapped snugly around her, tucked all the way up to her chin.

Everything is unfocused and blurry, and there is a pounding in the back of her brain. Her mouth is uncomfortably dry, and she licks her chapped lips. Whatever pill it was she swallowed last night, it really knocked her out.

Craning her neck around, she sees Elliot sleeping next to her, his chest pressed closely against her back. He is a large contributor to the heat. He snores lightly in her ear; his breath displacing her already tangled hair sprawled across the pillow. He's got one arm flung heavily around her ribcage, grounding her to the mattress.

She shifts around until she's out from under his arm and away from the furnace that is his body. The new mattress space is magnificently cool, and she folds back the quilt, sighing in relief.

Relief, that is, until she becomes suddenly aware of the tight pressure in her bladder. Cursing under her breath, she rolls on her side, hoping to eliminate the urge. No such luck. She knows that she'll have to go immediately. Behind her, Elliot mutters anxiously in his sleep, but remains unconscious despite the slight change in the tempo of his breathing. She hopes he isn't having a nightmare.

Eyeing him carefully, she cautiously slips out of the bed, mindful of her reddened wrist. She doesn't know what the hell Elliot went to do last night, or when he got back. She just knows that right now he's sleeping peacefully, and if she can spare him the torture that consciousness will surely bring him, she'll let him sleep all day.

She slips into her boots, not bothering to zip them up, and throws on her sweater, trying hard not to think about the fact that her leather jacket is still somewhere in the woods, wrapped around a tiny child. When she opens the door to the cabin, the downpour from the thick clouds above greets her. Grimacing, she flips up her hood and crosses her arms tightly around herself before stepping out onto the slippery porch and pulling the door shut softly behind her. The rain beats down on the leaves, filling the air with the smell of fall, the musky crispiness filling her nose with the scent of rain and soil and wilderness.

She steps out onto the ground, walking toward the back of the cabin in search of a private spot. Every place she walks, however, can be seen from the windows of the cabin, and the last thing she wants is to give Elliot a free show, should he be awake. She takes the opportunity to glance around her, check out the surroundings and the other bits and pieces of junk scattered haphazardly around the cabin. She spots a healthy looking wood stack to the right, but it is not covered by any sort of tarp so the wood is soaked through. Among the plants and shrubs she spots an old tire, a wheelbarrow, and some sharp metal contraption that she can't quite make out past the foliage around it.

She ventures deeper into the shrubs and ferns adorning the edge of the clearing, sighing in displeasure when the wet plants brush against her pants, soaking them from the knee down.

Finally, after trudging a good sixty metres into the dense woods, she finds a tree solid enough to lean against and crouches. The rain pours down on her and everything is slippery and the soil sticks to everything it touches.

When she finishes, she stands up, inhaling the freshness of the fall morning. Despite the horrible events of yesterday, standing here, in the rain, she feels like she is being cleansed. All the grime and ugly secrecy is washed from her body, the clean rainwater tasting cool on her lips. She sighs, and tries to ignore the tightness in her chest when she thinks of Elliot. She does not know what he's thinking, and that scares her more, perhaps, than anything else. She's always been able to know the basic theme of this thoughts, his plans, the way he operates, but now she can't find anything to ground herself to him. Like a bad telephone connection, she can't understand him and she wants desperately to fix it so that she can just hear what he has to say. She needs to find that connection again, for the well being of them both.

Her eyes snap open when she hears a loud crash from the cabin, and then Elliot's angry voice. "Olivia!"

She is scared of how desperate he sounds, how frightened and distressed his voice is. "Olivia, where are you?"

She begins the short walk back to the rear of the cabin, treading as quickly as she can over the muddy ground.

"Liv!" Elliot shouts, about as loud as she's ever heard him shout, and in the distance she sees him run out to the back of the cabin in his socks, boxers, and half buttoned dress shirt. She would laugh at his appearance if his movements weren't so frantic, his head darting around the clearing looking for signs of her. "Fuck!" he exclaims, his tone filled with worry.

"El!" she hollers, jogging out of the woods and into the little clearing.

Elliot spins around to face her, and then the next second he's sprinting in her direction, breathing heavily. She doesn't have a chance to brace herself for the impact when his body slams into hers, so they stumble a bit, but his arms wrapped around her torso in an inescapable bear hug keep her on her feet. "The fuck did you go?" he shouts, clearly angry, like a parent who has just found their child who ran away for ten minutes. "Don't you ever, _ever _do that to me again!" Elliot's voice breaks and he bows his face into her neck. She stands there awkwardly, her arms pinned at her sides, bewildered.

"Elliot…calm down. I went to the bathroom!" she defends herself, baffled. "What's the matter?"

"I thought…" his voice cracks again, "I thought you'd left me." He presses his mouth to her hair. "You can't leave me, Liv. You can't fucking leave me. Not now. Not ever."

The blood in her veins turns a degree colder, as they stand there letting the rain flood over them. His words echo in her head, and her heart clenches with worry.

"Elliot…"

"We have to stick together now," he whispers, rubbing his hand up and down her back. "I need you."

"Hey," she soothes, trying to help him regulate his breathing. "Okay. Okay, El."

He sighs heavily, his humid breath falling into the crook of her neck. When he looks up at her, his eyes are so blue she is taken aback. The emotion swimming in the pools of his eyes almost make her want to take a step back. He frightens her with his intensity.

"Let's get out of the rain," she offers. "Let's get dry."

"Okay," he whispers, his voice hoarse. He doesn't let go of her, keeping one arm tightly around her waist and the other grabbing her hand as they walk.

"You ran out here without shoes?" she asks, arching an eyebrow. She tries to lighten the situation, despite the cold fear running in her gut.

He half smiles, sheepishly. "Yeah…"

* * *

><p>"What the fuck is this?" Olivia exclaims when she spots the suitcase from her house packed full with her belongings. "Elliot!" She turns the suitcase upside-down, spilling the contents onto the wooden floor. Her face is red with fury.<p>

"You're going to need that," he points out, eyeing her clothing. "Might not want to get it all dirty."

"What are you thinking, Elliot?" Olivia has her hands planted on her hips and glares at him. "Packing our stuff, emptying your bank accounts and taking the cash from my apartment? What's going on?"

"Everything's going to be ok-,"

"No! No, it's NOT okay. We can't just…disappear!"

And then he's angry, the rage boiling up in his chest. Because she's not the one who shot a child. She's not the one whose mind is overcome with guilt and pain.

"Shut up, Olivia!" he yells back, his voice rivalling hers. They're well practiced in screaming matches.

"No! It's about time you told me what the hell is going on here!"

He stalks toward her, his anger fuelled by the fact that she doesn't even look intimidated, doesn't even step back from his powerful rage. "Don't you talk to me about things you don't understand."

"What?" her expression is incredulous.

He sighs heavily, dropping his face into his hands, before walking over to sit on the unmade bed. He pats the spot next to him, silently asking her to sit.

She stares at him with a raised eyebrow, speculative, but after a moment she walks forward and sits cautiously down next to him.

They sit in silence for several minutes, with no sound passing between them but the steady and comforting rustle of the wind in the trees and the thrumming of the rain against the ground.

Finally, she whispers, "You…you have to tell me what's going on."

"I know."

He puts a hand on her shoulder, pushes gently until she caves and the tension leaves her body.

"I…" he swallows, licks his lips. "I shot a child, Olivia."

He crouches over, resting his forehead in his palm. "I just…I need time to think. I need time away from it all. _Please._ I would take you back, but…" He sighs. "Christ. I don't want to hurt you, Liv, but I need you here with me. I won't survive without you. You have to understand…It's not my choice anymore."

* * *

><p><strong>So if it sucks, it's because my heart is broken from Scorched Earth. Anyone else cry during the premiere? Jesus.<strong>

**Please let me know what you thought, and I know it's confusing right now, but the answers will start to come soon...;)**


	4. Chapter 4

Takes place immediately after part 3.

* * *

><p>"So what are you going to do?" she asks quietly, from her spot in the corner of the wooden cabin, where she's slipping a dry shirt over her head of dripping hair. The damp strands tickle her shoulders and small drops of water sprinkle across the neck of the blue material as she pulls it down over her body. She reaches for the button of her soaking slacks, and they drop to the uneven ground with a soft plunk.<p>

Elliot sits in the armchair closest to her, watching her attentively, and the intensity of his lost gaze should make her feel uncomfortable, but she does not think that he can even see her right now. "I don't know," he murmurs, his expression vacant, and he speaks as though he's afraid he'll lose his train of thought at any moment, like he's floundering inside his despair, barely holding on.

She averts her eyes, trying not to let him see her looking suspicious or worried, because the last thing she wants is to set him off like she did earlier.

She isn't afraid of him, only of his unpredictable behaviour.

"What did you do with the car?" she asks, in quiet tones, not wanting to shatter the fragile peace surrounding them. She pulls the soft dry material of her yoga pants up her body, and ties the drawstring.

"It's a few miles back down the road. I walked the rest of the way here."

"Elliot…" She whispers sympathetically, biting her lip as she takes in his broken image. His eyes meet hers, and the blue of them is frighteningly empty and icy. She shudders inwardly. She walks to the armchair and stands behind him, and places her hands on his shoulders.

"I don't want your pity," he growls, turning away from her.

"I'm not…" she starts, but realizes she has nothing to say. She sighs, and a moment of silence passes between them. Their silences are so loud, an orchestra expelling the force of its energy into the audience. They expel their sensitivity and their numbness simultaneously.

"You're going to be okay," she soothes quietly, blowing warm air on the back of his neck. "You're going to get through this. You can get through it, El." She begins to gently knead the tight muscles in his shoulder with the palms of her hands.

At her words, he immediately bristles beneath her hands. "There is no me anymore, Liv. There's only us. _Us_." His head tips forward and exposes his neck further, a low groan escapes his throat as she continues her massage.

"El…"

"Tell me." He interrupts in a dark murmur. "Tell me you'll stay. Tell me you want me."

She is silent, the beating of her own heart deafening in her ears.

"Say it." He brings his left hand up and grips her hand on his shoulder firmly, desperately. "Tell me."

"I- I…" his newfound insecurity rocks her a little.

"You want me, don't you Liv?" He stands up, and her hands slip off his back. He steps around the armchair and backs her into the corner, his eyes fierce. "Don't you?" He growls, voice low.

She nods, almost imperceptibly. Just a slight movement of her head. "Of course," she murmurs, barely audible.

"So you're staying." It isn't a question, not a request. It is an order, uttered low and heavy from his throat.

And how can she possibly leave him like this? Her throat is so dry she has to clear it twice before she manages to speak. "Yeah."

He watches her a moment, his eyes so, so blue. The grey light from the rain outside slides through the window and along the floor, painted in defined streaks across his face, so half of his is bathed in the pale reflection and the other half obscured by shadows.

He walks toward her, stepping around the armchair and stalking slowly across the floor. His arms come to rest warmly around her waist and his hands clasp at the small of her back. His chin falls to the crook of her shoulder. "Good," he finally exhales. "It's good that you're here, Liv."

* * *

><p>"That looks disgusting."<p>

Elliot pauses, the spoon stuck in the container of brown non-perishable food as he prepares to dump it into the plastic bowl on the table. He glances at her with a smirk. "Eat this, or starve. It's your choice."

"It looks disgusting." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"You pick now to become miss princess?"

"Elliot, I'm pretty sure a caveman wouldn't eat that on a bad day. Do you even know what it is?"

"Uncle Mark's Beef and Vegetable Pudding."

She stares at him, and when he looks to her he shrugs his shoulders sheepishly. "Non-perishable."

* * *

><p>The clouds have finally shifted, and the pale moonlight of night slithers into the cabin through the split in the curtain. Like a snake it creeps up onto the bed, lying across the mattress in garlands of ashen light. It illuminates their forms under the sheets, intertwined together to generate heat and comfort.<p>

Elliot keep her awake by snoring loudly in her ear once again, the heavy exhales of his breath displacing the fine hairs of her nape. His arm is thrown lazily over her hips, but his fist is clenched around the material of her shirt, afraid even in his unconscious state that she'll leave him.

She softly tickles her fingers over the back of his hand in a slow, soothing circular motion, hoping to relax him. He's sleeping, but she can tell that it is fitful. His breathing isn't quite even, and he twitches constantly.

Suddenly his breathing hitches, and he coughs abruptly, turning his face into the pillow. He mutters under his breath, his fingers clenching in her shirt more tightly than before.

"Can't…" he whispers into the pillows anxiously. "I don't want…don't want…"

He trembles slightly, and with the way he's pressed against her she can feel just how restless his body is. "El," she whispers, giving his hand a squeeze. He immediately snatches it away, swiping his hand roughly over his brow.

"I won't…" his breathing increases in tempo and he writhes on the mattress. "No, Liv, no…" Elliot's eyes are pressed shut and beads of sweat mist over his forehead. Olivia turns in his frightened embrace, and props herself up on one elbow.

Elliot rolls toward her, squishing her under his weight as he moves to cover half her body. "Get down," he mutters worriedly. "Get down!" he then cries, his arms encircling her protectively.

"Elliot," she says sharply, trying to rouse him from his night terror. "Elliot, wake up." She grips his shoulder and shakes him.

"Don't die…don't die…don't…"

"It's okay, it's okay," she croons, smoothing her hand across his stubbled jaw. "Wake up -,"

She is interrupted by his groan, and he mumbles under his breath in a fretful rant that she can't understand. His hand comes up suddenly, and smacks harshly against the side of her face, exuding a sharp slapping sound. Reflexively she cries out, and the loudness of her voice is enough to wake him half way.

He exhales on a sob, his voice cracks, and his appearance is dishevelled. Olivia grips his shoulder tightly in one hand; the other is pressed against her stinging cheek. Both breathe heavily.

"God," he chokes, bowing his head until is rests against the smooth skin between her breasts. "I…fuck," he bawls, the tears spilling over his cheeks and dropping onto her white tank top, staining with their salt.

Her voice is trembling. "Shhhh," she whispers gently, her hands belatedly coming to cradle his back and his head. "It's alright, sweetheart. It's okay."

Elliot continues to shiver against her; his inhales sharp and rapid as he tries to catch his breath past the horror of his nightmare.

"You're okay, El." She rubs his back gently; her eyes wide in shock, her throat dry with sympathy. "It's okay." She repeats the soothing mantra until his breathing evens out and until his grip on her shirt slackens.

He sniffs. "I can't d-do this, Liv-v."

"You can," she whispers quietly into the bedroom, and the moment feels much too private.

"I can't," he contradicts. "Please. I just don't want to think about this anymore. Please."

A shiver courses through her. "I know, El. I know sweetheart."

"H-help me," he whimpers, his hands tightening around the material of her shirt once more. "Help me, Olivia."

"What can I do?" she murmurs, softly stroking his cropped hair.

"I just…I just don't want to think…" He sighs and shakes his head. "I just want to forget…for a while," he rants quietly to himself. And then his hot lips press against her sternum.

She inhales sharply, seizing up around him. "El…" she breathes, the contact simultaneously shooting warmth and bursts of fear through her torso.

She wants to help him. Desperately so. She will do anything to assuage his pain.

She wants to help him.

Desperately so.

Desperate.

Desperate.

"Elliot," she murmurs into the small cabin, and wraps her fingers around his jaw with a lax grip, pulling his face up to her level. She leans forward to meet him and her lips close around his, just a hint of a whisper, and she sucks gently at his puckered mouth. She pulls back softly, shyly, and her eyes are glued to his.

"Do you…is this…?" She asks tentatively, and her breath fans across his face.

His shoulders heave with the effort he puts into controlling his breathing. "Yeah," he whispers so gently that she can barely hear it.

Elliot lies down on the mattress on his side, pulling at her until she mimics him, her body facing his in the moonlight. Her eyes are wide, doe like, and her lips are parted. Elliot skims his fingers up the side of her arm, and the hairs there stand up straight in his wake. Goosebumps wash across her skin.

It is slow. So slow. So careful.

He closes the distance between their faces, his mouth coming to rest against hers again. Just resting. Testing. Feeling. Feeling something other than the insurmountable guilt and pain writhing inside his heart.

Olivia presses forward, chasing him, following his lips as he prepares to pull back again. Her fingers dig into the hard planes of her chest, nails scratching gently through the material of his shirt.

He opens his mouth and dips his lips against hers again with a moist sound, and her breathing accelerates. She moves her neck the slightest bit, repositioning herself and taking his bottom lip between hers.

She sips from him softly, wishing she could drink the pain away form him, and offering her unconditional support. Elliot's mouth closes over her again, and her heart beats faster, the heat of the moment intensifying as she begins to push against him with more confidence.

There is no fight for control like she has always expected there would be. There is no stubbornness, no resistance, only comfort.

She moves her pliable lips against his and his movements shadow hers, in increasingly defined motions as they both slowly shed their insecurities.

"Mmm," she unintentionally moans, and this only encourages him as he grabs her hip and pushes her over to lie flat on her back.

Elliot shifts and then he's above her, his hands on the pillow on either side of her. She tries to swallow the slight hurt in her heart at the thought that he doesn't want to touch her. Instead she shifts against him and slips her thigh between his legs, rocking her hips almost imperceptibly.

He exhales harshly against her lips, and then his head moves down and he bites her chin gently.

"El," she whispers in surprise, a small grin appearing on her face. "Oh," she breathes as he begins to rock with her.

His fingers play at the hem of her tank top for a moment, before the hesitation disappears and he slides it up her body until it catches at her fingers and hits the floor with a small rustling noise. She wears a plain white bra under the tank, not wanting to ruin her good lingerie with the wilderness. She blushes when she thinks of Elliot, in her bedroom, packing her underclothes for her.

She blushes harder when she looks up at him to find him staring down at her with wide, intense eyes. Embarrassed, she pulls his face back down to hers and wraps her arm around his neck in order to distract him from her chest.

She bucks against him and her other hand slips down, down, down past his chest and his waist to dip down into the material of his boxers. Her nails massage the back of his neck, and the fingers of her other hand tickle warningly against the skin of his thigh.

"Unh," he grinds out, separating his mouth from hers with a wet sound and hiding his face in her neck in concentration.

She moves her fingers slightly to the side, toward the middle, searching…searching…

Something is very wrong.

Abruptly, Elliot freezes completely against her as her hand wraps warmly around his entirely flaccid penis.

He is totally still against her for one moment, and then his hand is squeezing around her wrist so tightly she almost cries out. He yanks her hand out of his boxers and pushed roughly away from her, standing and pacing quickly to the other side of the room.

His shoulders heave and he hides his face in his hands in anger and embarrassment.

"Elliot -," Olivia starts, but he cuts her off with a jagged motion of his hand. "El," she whispers, and tries to regulate her breathing as she haphazardly yanks her tank top back over her head.

Her feet hit the floor and she pads tentatively to him. She closes her eyes for a moment when she realizes how hard this will be on him, how vulnerable he is feeling in the wake of not being able to perform for her…the trauma of the last few days too overbearing in his mind.

Olivia gently reaches out and splays her palm between his heaving shoulder blades.

"Don't."

She sucks in a breath, trying to mask her hurt, reminding herself that it isn't about her.

"Shhhh," she whispers. "El…"

"Get the fuck away from me, Olivia."

She waits a few more moments, but he doesn't give. He doesn't turn to face her.

Unknowing of what to do next, Olivia gently steps forward and wraps her arms securely around his shaking frame.

He fights her, trying to unlock her embrace, but she stubbornly holds on, desperate to show him that it isn't his fault. That she isn't upset. That she doesn't care.

She holds onto him for long, long moments.

Finally, after tortuous minutes of strained silence, he turns to face her.

He reciprocates her embrace, and presses his face to her hair.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you so much for reading. Please review :)<strong>


End file.
